


Swords, Books, Fire, Wit, Words

by lferion



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Stealth Crossover, Word Play, Yuletide, Yuletide 2010, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five touchstones, five touches</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swords, Books, Fire, Wit, Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/gifts).



* * *

  
Swords

On the galley, sea-sick stumbling toward the oar, he did not yet know the smell of swords, the dry-sweet bite of air that caught the throat and prickled straight the down at nape and thatch above, but he recognized the lightning behind those hooded eyes, the brightness veiled in misdirection. He was a blade, who taught him how to bend his back and grip, hold silent underneath the lash (of tongue, of cord, of flaying, flying spray.) A weapon-smith to forge in him an understanding of the body as a weapon wielded by the mind, and tempered by the heart.

* * *

  
Books

A library was a haven — any library: the room at Midculter that housed the volumes his namesake had collected had likely saved his life; corners and spaces out of view to shield his body, and the books to feed his mind. The library at Sevigny would be solace of another kind, and in between any volume - single leaf or signature, duodecimo or folio - stood synecdoche for all.

Books were past and future, possessing thought within, beyond his reach; the rooms that housed them, the folk contained therein, set apart and sacred in themselves. Closed, a book was promise; open, all.

* * *

  
Fire

Fire could mean so many things — the small and captive warmth of a candle, a lamp, the smokeless heat roasting a rabbit on a hillside, the spark of eyes meeting eyes; the moderate blaze on a hearth, controlled with fire-dogs and screens, companionship, quick anger, quick release; a bonfire, bone-fire, bale-fire bright burning unconstrained by walls, watchful eyes and skill the only curb on uncontrol. Then there was conflagration, flame racing through the night, bodies burning hot, smelting flesh, intellect and will to forge a fire-work, consuming all. And yet, fire was a glede, igniting love as well as deflagration.

* * *

  
Wit

More than the sword was wit a weapon, but unlike that single-purpose tool (too long, too specialized, hard to conceal, though it could indeed be done) it could be turned to many uses, to cleave and cleave, rein and reign, and even rain down comfort or confusion or delight. Facile, quick, slippery and sometimes delving deep, wit meant connection, in the bark of laughter, sidelong glance, uplifted brow that marked the understanding shared. A dancing duel, dangerously sharp, blood beating fast, breath bourne, every part engaged in flight - linnet, crow or eagle - arrow aimed to strike; piercing and interactive art.

* * *

  
Words

Love was a word, and pain; Phillippa and Francis, no and yes, oh, yes. Snow and sword, book and pen, blood and seed and soaring flight of song. Fire words that burned, ice words chilled, summer words and winter, autumn, spring. Words wrapped will, pointed wit, ignited flesh to fiery desire. Words wounded and words healed. Words gave one leave to go, they called one from the dark and into light. Most words were a map, a construct (sacred, sordid, blunt, inspired) not the land, the touch, the feeling wrought within; but some (creation and destruction) were Very Word indeed.

* * *


End file.
